


Three Treasures

by twistedchick



Series: Identity [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode: s04e01 Sentinel Too, Gen, episode-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:18:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedchick/pseuds/twistedchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the space between death and life, Jim finds an opportunity for enlightenment, and Blair finds courage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Bardo

I'm in the middle of unpacking boxes when I find the book Blair was reading to me last month.

The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.

We were sitting around after dinner, shooting the breeze, and I remember asking him what was so great about these Books of the Dead, anyway? Seems like everyone had them and they all died.

"That's not the point, Jim." He was talking with his hands, waving the book around with one finger marking a page. It fluttered like a pidgeon coming in for a landing as he gestured. "The book isn't supposed to stop you from dying, it's supposed to help you die well, get past the problems and roadblocks so you can go on to your next life. Or, if you're sufficiently advanced, to reach Nirvana and not have to be reborn again at all."

"Why is this reminding me of an old Crosby, Stills and Nash song?" I commented. When he looked puzzled, I sang, off key, "If I had ever been here before I would probably know just what to do. Don't you?"

"Exactly. That's just it, Jim. While people were dying, someone would read to them from the book, and it would tell them what to do in the bardo -- the time between lives -- and how to manage if they came back. Or were sent back; I'm a little unclear on how some of it works." Blair flipped pages open and started to read a section on hungry ghosts and other menaces that supposedly were waiting on the other side of the grave.

I guess I looked a little more skeptical than usual. "Sorry, I just can't buy that. Hungry ghosts and all."

"Even as a metaphor, it's pretty powerful, Jim. Think misers. Ebenezer Scrooge of the afterlife. Think of how useful it would be if you knew you were going to die, no way out of it, and you had a road map and someone as tour guide to make sure you got to the right place. You'd know who you might meet and how to deal with them."

Most of the time, the people I find who have died haven't had time to light a cigarette or call a name, let alone have someone read a book to them. I've seen enough gruesome deaths to make me swear off slasher movies permanently, even though I can tell the difference between dyed corn-syrup and real blood without thinking about it.

"So people don't automatically get reborn, then, Chief?" I asked, as much to keep him talking as anything else. Even when I haven't a clue what he's talking about, he's interesting to watch.

"No, it's not automatic at all. I think there's something on this page, no, this one." He flipped through the book, unsuccessfully. "It might be culturally determined, or at least the presuppositions fall on cultural lines. It could be anywhere from a week to several months. I thought I saw somewhere in here where it was ninety or a hundred days. And then the soul or atman or whatever gets to wherever it's supposed to be and is incarnated again. Cool, huh?"

This time, I think I was lucky. I didn't have to wait three months for him to come back from the dead. His bardo was only a few minutes.

A few lifetimes.

But mine is still going on.

The doctors said they'd let Blair out of the hospital tomorrow if all his tests come back negative. There's no news yet on where Alex has gone with the nerve gas; as soon as we know we'll be after her. I have Simon's word on that.

I went to see Blair in the hospital, and he looked dangerously fragile under all those tubes. The best I could do was to make a stupid crack about rent. It didn't tell him anything except that I want him back in the loft.

How much is beyond any words I know.

He hasn't said what he wants yet. He said some things at the hospital about visions and the mysterious that I still have to think about so I understand what's going on. I need to know where we are.

I'm not good with words. Blair knows that. Right now, I'm not good with gestures either. The last ones I made toward him before he died all had to do with rejection. It doesn't matter why. The dream I had didn't tell me to do what I did; that was my choice. My mistake.

I hate that it takes something like this to remind me that actions have consequences I don't always see. I hate it especially when it means I'm reminded with someone else's pain, but maybe that's what it takes to get it through my head.

I can't undo the past.

Maybe I can help undo the future.

So I'm spending the day unpacking all those boxes, bringing them up from the basement and putting everything away again, as much as I can. I can't undo what happened. Maybe by putting things back I can give Blair a little evidence that he's welcome. A road sign, maybe, that will help him find his way back.

I don't know if I'm unpacking for a resurrection or a wake, the death of the friendship we've built piece by piece over the past three years. I don't know if this is going to be the end, or the start of something more. Is it a grave or a chrysalis? I've failed him, he's failed me. There's trust issues all over the place, like trip wires. Everything's charged with meaning and nothing is simple any more.

He could get back here, look at the life he's got with me, and walk out for good. The thought makes my knees weak. I put down a tribal mask and lean on a stack of boxes, getting my breath back, regaining my equilibrium.

Compared to this, hungry ghosts would be a snap.

I can't put it all away. Too much has changed. I can put the books back on the shelves, and the pillows back on the bed, and the tribal masks up on the living room walls, but I don't remember where the toy boat went, or the chunk of rock amethyst, or the hummingbird next. I don't even know why he has a hummingbird nest, or what the amethyst chunk means to him.

There's so much I want to ask him, if he'll let me. There's so much I'd like to say, if he'd listen. He always tries; he tries harder than anyone I've ever known, even when I'm not trying at all, even when I've forgotten how to try because I'm so afraid of failure or losing control.

I lost control here a while back. I don't have it back yet. I don't even know how to try any more, except to wait out this bardo, and hope for rebirth into a better world.


	2. Facing the Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blair takes one step away from fear.

I can't do it any more.

When I was a kid, and traveling with Naomi, I used to look forward to having some place to stay that had a bathtub. I know, most kids hate baths, but I loved to play in the water. I had a toy boat I took with me on every move. It's wooden, hand-carved, with the paint worn off from being played with for so long. I can't remember a time before I had it.

Until last week it was on one of the bookshelves by my bed. It's probably out there in one of those boxes that hasn't been unpacked yet.

As soon as I knew we'd be somewhere for a while, I'd take a bath and play with my boat, and I was home. I'd made a little part of where we were into my own turf.

But I can't do that now. That boat's going to be in drydock for a long time, maybe forever.

I don't want to feel myself immersed in water, feel its power over my body. The body remembers, too much. It remembers pushing so hard against the water, pushing against something that moves away and flows around it and gives nothing back, no purchase, no safety, no salvation. Only more water, generously given, flowing in to replace the air.

It's hard enough just standing here in the hospital room shower, with the water coming down around me, all over me. I'm standing up. That's what keeps me sane here. I'm standing up, and it's only as deep as my little toe. The shower stall is too small to lie down in. I'd have to work really hard to drown here.

It was too easy, before. I don't want it to be that easy again.

I can't just put my face up into the spray any more. It's too much. It takes all the strength I have to cup water in my hands and splash the soap off my face. When I do, after the soap rinses away, I can taste the salt that didn't come from the showerhead, and I'm glad I'm here in the hospital and not at the loft where Jim could hear me. There's no way I could sing in the shower and drown this out. Not any more.

I rinse my hair and push it back out of my eyes, and lean on the wall, and do something superhuman that I couldn't do last week, something that proves I'm still alive.

I shut off the water.


	3. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting a new life is never easy.

Blair still looks fragile, ephemeral, as if he might vanish if I didn't keep looking at him. We take the elevator up to the loft, and by the time he's inside he's looking tired again.

But awake, very awake. He scans the loft, noticing all the things I've moved back into the places I thought they used to be. I know some of them aren't right. He nods, making note of what is where, accepting the changes, and I let out a sigh I hope he can't hear. It sounds like a wind shear to me.

It takes a while to recover from drowning, the doctors said. There can be memory loss, including loss of coordination, until the muscles remember how they're supposed to work. Parts of the brain are damaged by the lack of oxygen in the bloodstream when the heart stops. They tested him in every way possible, and told me that he's very lucky only to be a bit clumsy after twelve and a half minutes of death. That's an estimate; nobody knows how long he was in the fountain, though as far as we can tell it was probably less time than that. I know we worked on him for the longest ten minutes of my life.

Unless the water's cold enough to slow the body's systems significantly, drowning for that length of time would mean a loss of years of memory at a minimum. With Blair, it's a lack of physical coordination and no memory of how he ended up face down in several thousand gallons of stale water.

Thank God for small blessings. And large ones. Miracles.

While I was picking him up at the hospital, Megan dropped by with a take-out package of rotisserie chicken, fried yucca and salad. The aroma is almost overwhelming, and I dial it down to a bearable level. If Blair isn't that hungry, I can wait.

"Peruvian chicken?" He smiles, and my heart is in my throat already.

"Yeah." I'm trying to be casual, whether it's working or not. The situation is intense enough. "Conner dropped it off. You want some?"

"After hospital food? You have to ask?" He's sitting on the couch, leaning back against the cushions.

"You want it over there, or over here?" I wave a hand at the kitchen table.

Everything feels like new ground. No, not new ground. It's the field after the battle, and there are unexploded shells everywhere. I can't see far enough ahead to know where to walk. I have to move one step at a time, one breath at a time.

"You're suspending the House Rules to let me eat on the couch?"

I nod. "If you want."

He sighs, and shrugs. I hold my breath. Finally he nods. "Yes. Please. As long as you'll eat over here too."

"Sure." I load up two plates, bring them to the coffee table, and go back for drinks: tea for him, and water for me. Normally I'd have a beer with this meal, but not today. I don't want the excuse of alcohol if I screw up.

I'd put the small bag from the hospital in his room when we came in. There's still a few boxes stacked next to the french doors, and he's eyeing them uncertainly.

"I didn't know where to put everything," I said, as neutrally as possible. "I thought maybe you could help me with them, later."

If there is a later. If you want to have a later.

He nods, and starts to eat, slowly and deliberately, as if he'd never tasted herbed chicken before. And in this life, he hasn't. Everything old is new again. All the choices can be made anew, revised, reversed.

It's been chilly in the loft lately when the sun goes down. When I finish my food, I start a small fire in the fireplace, just enough to take the chill off the room. Blair's watching the flames lick the split wood as if they were the hidden keys that unlocked the great mysteries. When he notices me watching him, he pats the couch beside himself.

"It's all right. I'm not going to break. Not this time."

I realize I haven't touched him since I pulled him back from the dead, not really. I've helped him in and out of bed, and into and out of the car, but I haven't hugged him or put an arm around him in the comfortable way we've been used to, and he hasn't reached out for me, until now. I sit down, waiting.

It's up to him. I don't want to push, or pull.

"I failed you. I should've told you about Alex sooner." He's watching the fire. "I'm not going to ask for absolution, Jim. I think the karmic debt on that one's already been paid."

When I was a child, and Catholic, I learned about purgatory. Nobody ever told me what corresponded to what, though. How long would you have to spend there to repay a breach of trust? Would death take care of that one? Would living to repair the damage do it?

"The question is whether you still want me to work with you." His voice is quiet. He's been thinking about this a lot.

"It goes both ways." I'm watching the fire, too, but listening to the timbre of his voice, the quiet wheezy catch in his breath that the doctors said would go away soon. "There's no moral high ground here, Blair."

"I know. I think the questions are more practical than moral. Where do we go from here? Do we go anywhere at all?"

Is there still a we? Or is it him, and me, and nothing to hold us together but a shared task that may have ended?

"Where do you want to go?"

"Oh no, Jim." There's a glint in his eye that could be tears, or could be that wicked sense of humor. I don't know which to wish for. "It's not that easy, man. I'm not going to make all your decisions for you, and you're not going to make mine for me. Not this time."

He turns on the couch, and for the first time since he walked into the room I'm facing the full force of those blue eyes, riveting me to where I sit. There's nothing weak in those eyes, nothing hesitant or vague. There's nothing young in them, either. Right now he's older than I am, with a kind of strength I haven't seen in him before, something far beyond physical strength. I know without a shadow of a doubt that if he put one finger on me and pushed feather-light, I'd fall over as if I'd been shot.

"No more house rules, Jim. The old deal is off. We make the new one here and now. Or not."

Can he tell how terrified I am? Probably. Those blue lasers see right through me. He's shaking a little with effort, but I can't tell whether it's because he's tired or because he's using all the willpower he has to nail me down.

"All right." I have to say something. "I'd like to say yes, we make the new one."

He nods. "Good. Let's make it simple this time. Three articles."

"Why three?" I'm a little distracted. Did his heart rate just go up, or was that a blip in my hearing?

"Easy to remember. We both have to agree to them all, and we write them down and sign them, like a regular contract."

"Okay." If he thinks we need something written down, it's probably a good idea.

He turns to watch the flames again, long enough for me to get the notepad from next to the phone, and a pen to go with it. It feels too good to move, as if I'd been spiked down, immobile, and I take advantage of the chance to get more drinks for us, and to throw another chunk of applewood on the flames.

When I sit down again I offer him the notepad, but he shakes his head. "I don't think I can write right now." He lifts a hand, and it wobbles a little too much. I can tell it's tiredness as much as the aftereffects, but when I start to open my mouth to ask if he wants to take a rest he says, "No," before I can get the words out. He puts his hand back down in his lap, slides his hips back against the cushions so he's just a little more upright on his end of the couch, and rivets me into place again.

I wish he'd put that hand on my arm, just so I could feel his touch and know he was still Blair, but I can't ask for it.

"Article one. I'll go first." He's still for a long time. Too long. It feels so wrong to have him unmoving for so long. "No lies."

I write it down. Article One: No lies.

"Aren't you going to ask what I mean?" Blair's voice sounds a little lighter, but not with humor. Or at least not with the kind of humor he used to have.

"Should I assume it means what it says?" We're getting into the thickets here, straying off the straight and narrow. If words don't mean what they look like, I'm sunk.

"Interpretation is everything. Context matters. Basic anthropological principles. Also, if I remember correctly, basic principle of detection. It matters where the evidence is, right?"

I nod. "What does 'no lies' mean to you?"

"No withholding evidence, any kind of evidence. Dreams, visions, nightmares. We share it all. No running away from the relationship, and that means both of us." He turns to watch the fire a moment. I know that last sentence was as much for me, pushing him away, as for him and his fears of commitment.

His past fears of commitment. I don't know what he's afraid of now, if anything.

I don't know if I can do this. The pen is shaking in my hand. "Can I offer a corollary?" I ask. "What if something's too painful, or too personal, or just plain too private?"

Neither of us has had an easy life. It's a valid question.

"If something hurts you and you can't talk to me, can you promise to tell me it's there and you'll talk with someone who can help you?" he asks, with a kind of terrible patience. "I know you can't always tell me things. Simon understands some stuff better than I ever will. But don't just sweep it under the rug." He shifts a little, bringing a foot up to curl under his leg on the couch, and the firelight is bright on his pale skin. "Is that acceptable?"

I nod, and write it on the page. No lies, private problems acknowledged and dealt with. I can live with that.

"Don't look like such a martyr, Jim. It means I can't dodge either." He leans the side his head against the back of the couch, so he can still watch me. "Your turn, if you want."

What can I ask for that won't be too much? I run through the possibilities. What's most important? I know I'm giving up control here, or some of it, but I've done that in the past with him; my problems have come from taking it back wrongly. That's my problem, not his. What do we both need to work on?

It's so hard to say in words, but I try. "We need to talk in more languages."

The ghost of a smile flits across his lips. "You want me to explain things in Greek, Latin or Spanish? Or Urdu? Or conversational Ugaritic?" He's looking interested, almost amused. The blue laser has softened to a warm sapphire, like a deep lake on a hot day. He's not belittling the idea, just playing with it. But he's waiting, trying to understand, and I set out again on the rocky path.

"We don't speak the same language, Blair. We never have. It's not just cop cop talk or academic jargon." Where are the tripwires? Words can be traps, or liberators. "Words are your tools, not mine. Sometimes I need you to tell me things, to talk with me -- without them."

Touch. Smell. Sight. Hearing. Taste.

The movement of bodies in space, in proximity, a spiral dance like a stairway, like a helix, like a circle game over time.

Did I ever tell him I can visualize in six dimensions, or more? It's not hard if each sense is a dimension, plus time.

There are other patterns as well, other ways of understanding that I perceive, all of them beyond the fragile touch of human language. I'd be glad to try to explain it to him, if I could reduce it to only two dimensions, sound and the shape of letters on paper.

But I think he knows, because he's nodding. "Will you teach me to do it better, and tell me when you need that more than words?"

"Yes." No hesitation. I write down Article Two: speak nonverbally, with lessons.

"Three." His strength is fading; it's been a long day for him, between the lab tests early this morning at the hospital and coming home. Something's making him smile a little, and my heart pounds. "I shouldn't have to tell you this one, I should just tell you to put Aretha on the stereo."

"Respect."

He nods. "You don't diss me because I'm inconvenient." I open my mouth to protest but shut it immediately. He's right. I do it. Simon does it. I do it more than Simon ever did. "You don't treat me like a child, or a mascot, or anything but an equal, and I do the same for you."

He's not my equal. In everything but physical ability he's stronger and superior to me. He always was. But if he wants to lower himself to being an equal, I can accept this. I don't know how to say this to him. I don't know if it matters to him that he's smarter and more educated and better at assembling the available facts into a coherent pattern than any trained detective I've ever worked with.

There's something else in my mind and I wait a moment for the words to come. He watches me gravely, waiting too. The mental images are clearer: the arc of candles he uses for meditation, the cabin in the hills by the stream where I like to fish.

"We protect each other's spaces," I say. "When you need space, here, somewhere else, you tell me and I respect it, and you go. And I don't just go off to the mountains without telling you, either."

Blair's nodding now. This article's important to him as it is to me. "It goes with the first one, no lies. Neither of us owns the other." He curls a little away from me and watches the fire a moment. "We're the guardians of each other's solitude."

"Yes." That's closer to what I meant than anything I could come up with. I write it down: Article Three, respect and guard solitude.

His heart rate's up a little again, and his breathing's getting ragged. He must be exhausted, but he's still alert, still turning back to me. The lasers are there but the intensity is fading a little.

"This isn't once for all. We review this whenever we need to. Amendments. Revisions. If we need something different, we can change it." It's getting harder for him to talk; his throat sounds rough. I hand him the cooled tea, and he sips it slowly and nods, and I push the table closer so he can put it down without leaning.

"But both of us have to agree to change it?" I offer.

"Absolutely." He nods once, and leans his head back on the couch again.

"Do you want to set a time to review it?" Now I sound like an attorney.

"How about every three months for a while, and then less often if it's going well?" He was watching me, no expression on his shadowed face. "This is more work than we did before. Maybe it's too much."

If it means we're still together, it's not too much. I'm almost shaking with relief that we've gotten this far.

I write, "Three month review" below Article Three. It's better than I thought. I can almost read my handwriting.

"What else?"

"Sign it." His voice is adamant. Not loud, but fierce.

I draw a deep breath, let it out, and sign my name under the articles. When I pass the pad to him, he reads it slowly, as if memorizing every word, takes the pen in a shaking hand and signs below my name. He hands the pen back to me, and stares at the contract for what feels like a long time.

It comes to me that this is the first contract I've ever signed that a raft of attorneys haven't vetted first. I'm not used to private contracts or covenants, though I'm not sure I like what most lawyers do with them either. It's just not an area of my expertise. I drink the last of the water and put the glass down further over on the coffee table, so that it's out of the way if one of us decides to put our feet up.

Blair looks up from the pad. He seems more tense, suddenly, and his heartbeat speeds up a little. It's been slow since he came home; this is normal, too, they tell me. He starts to get up, and I reach over to help him get to the bathroom or wherever, but he shakes his head.

"I'm all right."

He's moving slowly, but steadily, still holding the pad. As I watch, he walks over toward the fire, and studies the pad in its light. The last fruitwood log is burning brightly, and the embers of the others spill enough heat to keep the place warm all night, but I'll put another log on if we're going to be up much later.

Blair tears the page off the pad, opens the screen on the front of the fireplace and throws the contract onto the burning log. The dry paper catches immediately, the ink showing dark against the peach flames until it's all black ash.

I didn't see this tripwire. Did a mine go off that I couldn't detect? Are we both dead?

I'm on my feet before I can think. "Why?"

Blair turns away from the fire. He looks calmer, more relaxed. I'm the one who's tense with fight-or-flight instinct.

"The paper doesn't matter. If the contract's real, it's written here." He touches his hand to his heart, and reaches out to touch my chest. I can feel the tips of his fingers reverberating against my heartbeat, and I don't want to move. It's the first time he's touched me in longer than I want to think about.

No mine at all. We may even have made it to the other side of the minefield in one piece.

"I think -- I think I need to have us talk in other languages for a while, if you don't mind." I don't think I can stand it any longer, looking at this evanescent ghostly presence and not being able to feel him in my hands, not know with all my senses that he's alive and not a dream.

"Would you do something for me first?" His voice sounds tired now, but his face is looser, less strained. "If you don't mind, that is?"

"What?"

"Bring over the things that you couldn't figure out, and I'll look at them, see where they should go."

He's staying.

I gather up the few small pieces of unknown Blair history, and carry them back to him as if they were the crown jewels of a lost kingdom. He's sat back on the couch again, but this time closer to the center, so I can sit down next to him and put an arm around him.

I set the treasures on the coffee table, pull it closer so he can reach them, and curl up behind him with my arm around him. His hair smells like hospital soap, alkaline and harsh, but his skin smells warm and a little sweaty, a good smell. I treasure it. I could zone on it, but that's not what I need to do right now.

When I was a Ranger, and someone in my patrol was hurt, anyone, we'd all run our hands over him lightly to find out where the wounds were, to know what to do. We learned by experience that the men that didn't let us touch them wouldn't live; they wouldn't become enough a part of the unit to trust us with their lives in tight places. We were all part of each other on a level I can't describe, so that when one was injured the rest of us felt it.

After the helicopter crash, I held each of them in my arms, the dead and the dying, so they wouldn't be alone, so they'd know they were still part of something. So I'd know I was still part of something. And then I buried them, all of them, and I was alone. It was lonelier than I'd ever been in my life until the Chopec found me.

I felt like I was back in that jungle this last week, waiting beside another open grave.

But not now.

Blair's looking at the three treasures. He points to the rock, and I hand it to him. It glows in the firelight, and sends little purple rainbows onto the walls.

"I got this on a dig a few years ago. A geologist we were working near found a small vein of amethyst and chipped out chunks for each of us." He smiled softly, reminiscently. "Will it fit on the windowsill? Or on the bookcase where the sun will find it?"

"Sure. You want me to put it there now?"

"No. Please stay with me."

"I'm not leaving you, Chief." My arms tighten around him, but I try to stay gentle. The last thing he needs is more pain.

"I know." A private laugh bubbles up. "You'd be breaking the contract already."

"What if I were to tell you I was leaving?"

"Violation of all three articles, man. I know you. You'd be lying, you wouldn't be letting me communicate back to you why it would be such a shitty idea, and you'd be dissing me. Besides, you wouldn't be around to renegotiate."

"Then I won't do it." I cuddle him in my arms and feel him relax, feel his spine lengthen against my chest and his head lean back against my shoulder, the tendrils of his hair tickling my nose.

I didn't know that my nose could be lonely for them until now, when they're back.

Blair reaches down for the hummingbird's nest. It fits in the palm of one hand, with room to spare.

"This was outside my window when we stayed in Virginia. I think I was about ten or so. Naomi and I would watch the birds feed their chicks every day. They looked like jewels, like something Faberge would have made for the Romanovs. When we were leaving, I went back into the house and leaned out the window so I could bring it with me. It was empty, but it was a home I could take with me."

He touches a fingertip to the glinting feathers lining the nest, and set it to rest again on the table.

I might think he's asleep, he's sat still for so long, until I notice that he's looking at the toy boat, so I look at it too. It's not something from a modern kid's store; it measures about four inches long by two inches wide and looks hand-carved, sturdy, with remnants of the original paint. As I study it more closely I recognize it -- a carefully made replica of a New York City tugboat, pushed-up bow and all. Like an old teddy it had been loved to pieces, worn and scraped and treasured.

Finally Blair picks up the boat. His fingers are shaking so much I think he'll drop it. His hand clenches on it, and his shoulders shake, and I turn him around in my arms so he can cry on me instead of the couch. It's as if it's released everything he's kept inside, all the tension, everything holding him together. I hold him close for a long time, rubbing his back and the nape of his neck, rocking him just a little.

When the tears slow, and he's used my handkerchief, he says quietly, "I can't talk about this now. You'll have to trust me on it."

"I trust you, Blair," I whisper into his hair.

With my life. With everything I am.

He tugs on one of my arms, and when it loosens he puts the boat in my hand. His voice is hoarse as he whispers, "Would you hold onto this for me, until I can ask for it back?" I nod, and he closes my fingers around it, his fingers over mine wrapping the small toy, the last unknown treasure.

Blair feels a little cold, but relaxed, boneless, as if all the fight he'd ever had inside him was used up. I tug a blanket off the back of the couch, drape it over him and as much of me as it will cover, and put my arm back around him again. He nestles in, and his eyes close, and finally he's resting.

When I close my eyes, I know the grave in the jungle is gone, and the battlefield full of mines is behind me -- behind us -- and we've made it to open ground. Not absolute safety; there's no such thing in this world any more. But we'll be able to see what's coming, and the sun is rising in gold and blue and glorious colors over a new day, a new life.

**Author's Note:**

> In Buddhism, the three treasures are the Buddha (the truthbringer), the dharma (the teaching), and the sangha (the community.)   
> This story was written in 1998, and takes place after Season 4, Episode 1, "Sentinel Too: Part 2".


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